


My Dearest Friend

by Roadstergal



Category: 1776 (1972)
Genre: American Politics, Childbirth, F/M, Letters, Love Letters, Marriage, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-16 09:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13051011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: I love that 1776 uses quotes from actual letters between John and Abigail, and I wanted to play off of that.  Off of Abigail's intelligence and independence, and how they managed to be husband and wife, political confidantes, equal intellectuals, and torrid lovers, all at the same time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boniface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boniface/gifts).



_What was this?  How to parse it properly?_   _Was this the unpleasant, fat little boy who had teased her on his - thankfully - rare visits when they were younger?_

Perhaps it was petty of her to remember him as such.  But what else to think of such a disagreeable boy, who talked too loudly and made her headaches worse, who pulled her hair and tired her and made her happy to retreat back to her bed with a book?

Odd that time could wreak such a change - a man, now, still as loud, but more measured in speech, more erudite - a man who walked over to her, eyes shining as if he had never seen anything as lovely as this skinny, pale little girl, trying unsuccessfully to bury her face in her book.

"Abigail,"� he said, and it was as if nobody had said that word just like _that_ , like her name was her soul.  "In your books, as always, and radiant, as always."

 

* * *

 

Another letter.  Was it too many?  Her father's disapproving looks made it seem that way.  And yet there were never enough; she opened the envelope and devoured the words, as if the books surrounding her were soldiers' rations and this - yes, this were the most decadent banquet she could ask for.

_Itches, Aches, Agues, and Repentance might be the Consequences of a Contact in present..._

She brushed her fingers over the paper, tasting the words.  Despite her illnesses as a child - happily now in the past for good, it seemed - she was not naïve.  She had visited the farms with her father, she had lingered and learned; she knew the ways of males and females, and it had always seemed crass and coarse, animalistic, not for her.  And yet John somehow made it different.  Her finger crossed his name on the letter, so carefully and elegantly signed.  She could envision his fingers on the quill, strong and sure, and it awakened something in her.

So terribly interesting.  She must needs explore this.

The quill was small, sharp, and sure.  It made her feel powerful, potent, sexual - like Diana, a virgin, a deadly, free huntress.  _Do you fancy yourself Actaeon?_

 

* * *

* * *

_Patience my Dear! Learn to conquer your Appetites and Passions!_

She bit her lip, contemplating the missive.  Yes, it was wise counsel.  Yes, she had read Epictetus, and had thought Stoicism the highest calling - and yet, not now.  Now, she had a challenge.  A challenge of the mind, that set her heart racing and moved her blood to her brain - and to other places, as well.

How should it be when she next saw him?  That was the difficulty.  When they had traded missives of such passion, how to act with decorum and modesty when they finally saw each other in person, when ink-stained fingers sought each others' touch...

Yes, that was her challenge.  And she felt anticipation of a degree and quality that she had not felt in her seventeen previous years.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"A girl, a bonny girl - would you like to hold her?"

Abigail exhaled, carefully wiping her brow with a hand that would not stay steady, feeling the dampness of the ordeal.  The return of a semblance of normality after such overwhelming agony made her giddy, as if after too much drink.  "No - take her to her father." Abigail could not countenance the sight of the girl right now.

The midwife handed the squalling, red-faced baby to her assistant, who wrapped it in a cotton rag and hurried from the room.  The woman then turned her insistent, prodding hands to  Abigail's private parts, provoking an involuntary hiss.  "Only a little tear.  'Twill heal within some days.  Take care to keep it clean, wipe with spirits daily, and avoid intimacy until it is healed!"

Abigail paid no heed to the judgmental tongue-click of the midwife as she roused herself from the gore-soaked bedsheets.  There would be time for rest.  For now - she minded little as much as being unkempt, and this may well be the most unkempt she had been in her life.  Strange it was that pleasure - such delirious, overwhelming pleasure as John gave her! - could lead naturally to such intense agony, one that took away the joy of words, leaving her to chase them in vain as she screamed and grunted, base noises that she cringed to recall.

This pain was a judgment from the Creator, Abigail had been told in her youth.  Yet, she mused as she cleaned her face from the basin in the corner, this had made little sense at the time, and less now.  She was not sinless, but certainly no lesser in goodness than many - and better than many a man who would never experience such agonies!

No, it was merely a fault of human frailty, a passing imperfection of the corpus, as the one that allowed the small pox to strike at will.  It was an explanation with great appeal, she pondered as she ran damp fingers through her hair.  Men were obviously varying in perfection - the slow as well as the swift, the short as well as the tall; the bald, the stupid, the cowardly, the cold-hearted.  Why should women likewise not vary, from the rare who went through this with ease, through the common who made it through in pain, to those who perished in the process?

"The first brings the most pain," the midwife noted, assisting her to pin her hair back in place.  "This bodes well, the first being so quick and easy!"

Abigail took a deep breath.  She already felt more herself, more composed, calm, thoughtful.  The woman that looked back at her in the glass was now, once again, the Abigail she knew.  She turned to the midwife.  "Then I will dress, and see my husband and my daughter."  Her daughter.  John's daughter.  The life they made together.

Under their roof, the girl would not lack for sustenance of mind or body.


	3. Chapter 3

There were, perhaps, more apt places than one’s bed to indulge in such self-centeredness. However, Abigail was increasingly sure she would never rise from this bed; her weakness had only increased, and her fever refused to break.

Her reflections revealed how little she had to complain about over her life. Of six children, four had made it to adulthood – a fair bit of grace, even if one had been a grave disappointment, and another had passed after painful illness. Her investments had created wealth enough to carry John comfortably through the remainder of his life. The new house of the President was open to visitors, and had served as a refuge for children of intemperate fathers.

She was pleased, now, with the work she had put into bring no regrets from this world to the next, reaching out to bridge the chasm that had opened between her dear John and Thomas Jefferson – parents should not argue so over the raising of a child, as the two of them had raised a country. With the same blood, suffering, and death that had plagued childbirth throughout history.

And yes, the country had disappointed – no sufferage for women, no freedom for the Negro, lies and slanders freely published. It was tempting to comb over what had happened to bring on such a state, what one could have done differently – was there a word she had placed wrong, some emphasis on duty and industry unsaid, that could have saved poor Charles?

Such thinking was fruitless. The country was as it was, and there was nothing to do but to try to improve it, to make it, someday, as proper as good John Quincy.

It was a pity she would not be present to guide and direct the country through these changes. What would she see, from beyond the grave? A country that brought women into the body politic, counting their votes, perhaps elevating one to the presidency? A country that freed the Negro, that educated him and allowed him to reach his full potential? Or a country that gave in to fear and demagoguery?

Whatever the outcome, she would be with John soon enough. She tried to smile at the worry and pain on his lined face.

"Do not grieve, my friend, my dearest friend. I am ready to go. And John, it will not be long."


End file.
